Special Delivery
by seatbeltdrivein
Summary: One morning, Alfons makes the grave mistake of not waking up before Ed. Everything goes downhill from there.


_Won second place for week 106: "weird, seamless crossovers" at LJ's fma_fic_contest. _

_EDIT 4-3-2011: I've been bullied into continuing this. ^^; Will be continued once I've gotten my help_japan charity fic obligations out of the way.  
><em>

_._

.

.

.

The window in the kitchen was rattling. Ed could hear it from the sofa, where he lay sprawled out quite comfortably. It started with a simple tap and went quickly from there to a full-out barrage of ceaseless hammering by something small and sharp, from the sound of it. He'd hoped Alfons would get it. Alfons was always awake first – but no such luck that morning.

"Fuck," Ed grumbled, rolling to his feet and scratching his belly as he stumbled wearily into the kitchen.

Maybe it was the time of morning (just before six), or maybe it was that he hadn't had nearly enough sleep the night before. Whatever the reason, when Ed opened the window, there was a brief moment where he felt absolutely nothing at the sight of a large barn owl hovering anxiously just beyond the ledge. It hooted, an agitated sound, and swooped right inside, dropping the rolled up paper it had been clutching in its sharply clawed feet onto the tiny kitchen table. Then, it perched itself on the back of a chair—Alfons' chair—and hooted again, sounding quite a bit louder and more demanding.

Ed looked at the owl. The owl looked back. Was this a joke? He'd been in this world long enough to know that owls didn't just—swoop in and deliver mail! Cautiously, Ed inched forward and grabbed the paper, pulling off the tie and unraveling it.

It _was_ a newspaper. He was at least certain of that. _The Daily Prophet_, the title proudly proclaimed. Beneath it, the date, the volume, and—

A picture. A _moving_picture.

The caption beneath it read HEADMASTER SCAMANDER PREPARING TO RETIRE? POSSIBLE SUCCESSORS NAMED…

In the photo, an elderly man wearing a rather ridiculous pointed hat was sitting in a high-backed chair, staring up at Ed expectantly. Ed stared back, and said, "What the fuck? Pictures don't move!"

The old man in the photo made a rude gesture and promptly walked out of the frame.

Startled, Ed threw the paper back onto the table and backed away. "I've got to be asleep," he said, blinking rapidly. "I have _got_to be dreaming!"

He'd just go back to sleep. Likely, the moment his head hit the cushions, he'd wake up and _not_be staring down some freaky owl in his kitchen, but when he turned to leave, the owl hooted again, loud and intimidating. Ed turned back around, set to shout right back, but the owl was having none of that. In a strange hopping move, it jumped off the back of the chair and into the air, gliding across the kitchen to let out a screech just before pecking at Ed's head.

Ed let out a shout, flailing his arms and almost managing to get the little shit, but the thing flew off to the corner of the kitchen, watching him with sharp eyes. _I dare you_, its stare said. _Try and move_.

"Fucking birds," Ed hissed through gritted teeth. He took a step—and the owl launched itself into the air.

Ducking under the table, Ed got on his hands and knees, trying to scoot his way out of the kitchen, but the owl, too clever by far, thought ahead and dove down, set on taking out whatever its grievance with Ed was on the back of his head.

"Ed!" Alfons was in the doorway, blue eyes wide with shock and hair sticking up in all directions, obviously having rolled straight out of bed.

"GETITOFF!" Ed shrieked, still rolling around on the ground, trying to cover his face.

Alfons let out a low whistle and held up something in the palm of his hand—three small bronze coins. The owl took notice and returned to the back of the chair, holding one of its legs out. Ed sat up on the ground, staring, incredulous. He hadn't noticed before, but the bird had some sort of small pouch attached to its leg. A carrying pouch of some sort? It had to have been, because Alfons dropped the coins inside of it.

"Do you need some water?" he asked the owl, stroking its feathers.

The owl hooted indignantly, taking back to the air, its feathers all ruffled. It went right out the window.

The kitchen was silent. Ed pulled himself off the ground, using the chair for leverage, and leveled Alfons with a dark look. "What," he began, breathing heavily, "the _fuck_."

Alfons held up his hands. "I can explain!"

"No, you can't!" Ed said. "I was just—" He looked at the opened window, still flustered. "That was—" He flapped his arms, words beyond him.

"Yeah," Alfons said, cringing. "I know."

"And the—!" Ed grabbed the paper off the table, shoving it Alfons' face. "WHY IS IT MOVING?"

The old man was back in the photo. When Ed pointed at the paper, he waved cheekily at both boys.

"Now, Ed, why don't you sit down?" Alfons said, laughing nervously as he reached for the paper. "And I'll just take this—"

Ed backed away, clutching the paper to his chest. "Why," he asked again, "is the picture moving?"

"Um," Alfons said. He was fidgeting, eyes darting back and forth, more nervous than Ed had ever seen him. "All right. So."

Ed waited.

Alfons fumbled, looking like he'd rather simply forget the whole matter. "So, it's like this."

Again, Ed waited, but Alfons just kept stopping. "Like what?" he asked crankily.

"Okay, so, don't, uh, react," Alfons began, "but that paper—" He cut off again, looking at the floor. Ed lost it.

"Just spit it out!" Ed demanded.

"I can't!" Alfons said. "It's against the law!"

Now it was Ed's turn to fumble. "Against the law?" he repeated.

"It's—really complicated," Alfons said. "But—well, maybe in _my_case it would be all right…"

"What's your case?" Ed looked again at the paper, his mind moving too slow to process everything. "What the hell is this?"

"Right, okay," Alfons muttered, steeling himself. "That," he pointed to the paper, "is a Wizarding newspaper."

Ed waited for the punch line. He received silence. "What," he said, "you're serious?" Ed laughed. "Come on, Alfons, how unscientific can you be?"

"I knew you wouldn't believe me," Alfons muttered. "You tell so many stories, but you can't believe this?"

"A Wizarding newspaper? Hell, no I can't."

"Then explain the pictures," Alfons challenged him. "If not by magic, then how—"

"Magic doesn't exist," Ed said sharply. "What do you take me for?"

"All those crazy stories you tell, and you don't believe in magic?" Alfons sounded so frustrated. "I'd thought—"

"You'd thought what?" Ed couldn't tell what the hell had gotten into Alfons. He'd never known his friend to tell ridiculous stories. Normally, that was _his_forte.

"I'd been hoping," Alfons said stiffly, "that your stories were your way of—I don't know," he ran a hand through his hair, "testing the waters."

"For what?" Ed threw his arms out. "You aren't making any sense!"

"I thought you were trying to say you were like me!" Alfons said.

"What?" Ed scoffed. "You thought I was telling you I was—a _wizard_?" Had Alfons gone mad?

"No," Alfons said, deflating. "A squib."

Ed stared. "A what, now?"

"A squib," Alfons repeated miserably. "I thought the whole alchemy thing was, oh, hell, I don't even know, a metaphor, or something!"

"A metaphor? A squib?" Ed felt like his brain had short-circuited. Who had kidnapped his logical, intelligent friend and replaced with him with some insane lookalike?

"A squib is someone born into a magical family, only," Alfons looked disgusted, though at what, Ed couldn't say, "without the magic. No better than a Muggle."

"I don't get it." Ed looked at the paper. Magic? Nothing sounded more ridiculous. But then, the proof was right in front of him, printed in black and white—literally. How else could he explain pictures that moved and acted like real people? "So, you're—not a, er, wizard?"

"No. My parents were, though." The topic seemed to do nothing but depress Alfons. Ed quickly switched gears.

"Then why didn't you believe me?" Ed asked. "If you're from some—some magic family, then why wouldn't you believe that I'm from another world?"

"Because," Alfons said seriously, "you don't know anything about alchemy."

Screw short-circuiting. Ed's brain went liquid, and he was pretty sure it had to be dripping out his ear at that point. "You think I don't know anything about _alchemy_?"

"Of course not," Alfons said impatiently. "You say the most ridiculous things! Alchemy is a branch of magic that's ages old. It's not so—so scientific. You make it sound like it's on par with physics. Besides," he added, "I've met Nicholas Flamel, so I think _I'd_know."

"YOU'VE MET FLAMEL?" Ed howled, getting right in Alfons' face. "Not possible!"

Alfons cringed. "Okay, so I wasn't actually supposed to tell you _that_either."

"I—you!" Ed's mouth flapped open and closed. "What!"

"Well, you know," Alfons stammered. "He, uh, he goes to the opera house, most Fridays. I used to run into him, and he's a really bizarre old man, so it's difficult not to notice—"

"Nicholas Flamel," Ed breathed, stars in his eyes. "The man who created the Philosopher's Stone? He's here? In _Munich_?"

"Sometimes?" Alfons hazarded. "I mean, he's not always here. I think he just Apparates here because no one bothers him. Unlike the French," he scoffed. "I hear they practically mauled him when he got caught at an opera in Paris, last century."

What the hell Apparating was, Ed didn't have a damn clue. He was still stuck on the fact that Flamel was alive—and in Germany!

"You have to introduce me," he ordered, grabbing Alfons' hands. "He's the key! He has to have the Stone—he can help me get back!"

"Ed," Alfons said weakly. "I really don't think I'm allowed to do that."

"I believed your story," Ed said fiercely. "Why won't you believe mine?"

Alfons frowned. "It's not a matter of believing," he said, extracting himself from Ed's grip. "It's a matter of not breaking the law. And besides, it's not like Flamel and I are bosom buddies! I've just seen him around."

"Well, then," Ed said, smiling jaggedly, "let's just go see him around _together_."

Alfons looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he sighed. "I hear there's a new opera opening on Friday," he offered, shrugging.

"I'll buy the tickets," Ed said, and handed Alfons the paper, grinning.


End file.
